Pong: The Final Frontier
by Kitty Calnan
Summary: A weird thing that I keep writing nosencical chapters for.
1. Pong: The Final Frontier

bPong: The final frontier/b  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Pong. I have no idea who does.  
  
*Dramatic Theme music*  
Narrarator: Floating through space, we find the ball. He has one mission; to... uh... *whisperes to stage manager* what iis/i his mission? What? He doesn't HAVE one? Oh, #@"!! You promised me a decent story this time! What's that? My salary is iwhat???/i I'm outta here! How much rise? Oh! okay!  
Ball: So this is it. This is my life. To hit a paddle, then be hurled through eternal darkness...  
Narrarator: Uh Ball...  
Ball: What?  
Narrarator: This is supposed to be a comedy  
Ball: It is?  
Narrarator: Yep. Oh, and the Director has just halved your paypacket  
Ball: WHAT? Why that-  
*POW!*  
Narrarator: Poor Ball has ended up in A+E after a death-defying paddle-bash... we'll join him in a few hours when he's moved into a hospital bed  
*audience laugh at expence of the NHS*  
Narrarator: We have an audience?  
Ball: My therapist is gonna get an earful on Tuesday!  
  
END 


	2. Pong: Return of the 'Fic

Pong: Return Of The 'Fic  
  
Disclaimer: WHY?? Why does every Fanfiction have to begin with a disclaimer?? I mean, everyone knows I don't own it!! Well I'm not doing one! ... What the? *looks back* Oh #@!!  
  
*Little twinkly stars*  
Narrarator: Long, long ago...  
Ball: *butting in* Uh... we need a disclaimer for Star Wars, too...  
Narrarator: Wha- *snap* WELL WE DIDN'T UNTIL YOU OPENED YOUR BIG MOUTH!!  
Ball: I don't have a mouth...  
Narrarator: Well then how do you speak, smarty pants?  
Ball: I don't wear pants, either.  
Narrarator: *shuffles sideways*  
Ball: HOW CAN I? I don't have any legs, not to mention-  
Narrarator: Exactly not to mention. We do want to keep this G rating, you know.  
Ball: ...  
Narrarator: ...  
Ball: Does this even HAVE a storyline?  
Narrarator: *looks at script* Uhh... no.  
Ball: Does it have a script?  
Narrarator: Uhh... No.  
Ball: Then how did you look at it just now?  
Narrarator: Artistic licence.  
Ball: Rubbish, you can't even draw!  
Narrarator: ...  
Ball: This 'fic sucks! We don't have a script or a storyline, and the audience has gone home!  
Narrarator: I feel an idea coming on...  
*light bulb appears out of thin air above N's head*  
Ball: What the heck is THAT?!  
*light bulb turns off and drops*  
Narrarator: Ouch! *rubs head* My idea's gone!  
Ball: Then I guess we might as well stop.  
  
END 


	3. Pong: The Paddles Strike Back

Pong: The Paddles Strike Back  
  
Disclaimer: Take a hike... Eventually you'll find them. The people who own Pong, that is.  
  
Narrarator: *ahem* Many points questioning the er... goodness? of this fanfiction were raised last chapter. So here we will try to make the 'fic more um... good. Yeah, that's it.  
*Ball knocks Narrarator out of the way*  
Narrarator: Aaaaaaaaargh!  
Ball: Yes, well, anyway... *ahem* the following changes have been made.  
  
1) I have had plastic surgery so that I can have the luxery of facial features. I have also been given two wooden legs and a pair of boxer shorts.  
  
2) Narrarator has hired a personal tutor to teach him how to draw, so he can use his 'artistic licence'.  
  
3) He used this artistic licence to come up with an unbelievably awful Star Trek rip off as a storyline.  
  
Nararator: It's not a rip off! It's my own original!  
  
Ball: Yeah, right.  
  
4) To go with this storyline, he wrote a script (surprisingly enough).  
  
5) I got on the phone to Mobs 'R' Us, and hired a professional audience.  
  
Audience: Cheer!  
  
Ball: Why thankyou. Now, this marvel of a story shall begin!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Ball: Um, please?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Ball: Why isn't it starting?  
*Narrarator runs on stage*  
Narrarator: Okay, wellll....  
Ball: Well what?  
Narrarator: *takes deep breath* The audience got hungry, and ate the script. In turn, your boxer shorts got hungry and ate the audience. Then your facial features got hungry and ate your boxer shorts. Then your wooden legs ate your facial features. And right now, woodworm are in the process of eating your legs; they should finish about... now.  
Ball: Aargh! *falls to floor* Ouch! *starts to sob* Sob! Why??! Sob, sob!  
Narrarator: There, there. Well, I guess that brings us to the end.  
  
THE END 


End file.
